‘You know the place very well,’ observed Aurelius.
‘Certainly,’ said Ambrosinus. ‘I lived here a long time as a doctor and adviser to Commander Paullinus.’
‘What’s that over there?’ asked Romulus, pointing to a megalithic monument that was beginning to emerge from behind the sides of the hill, on a raised area that had been invisible to them. It looked like an enormous stone slab encircled by four gigantic rock pillars, standing at the four cardinal points.
Ambrosinus stopped. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is the funeral monument of a great warrior of this land, a Celtic leader known as Kalgak, who the Latin authors call Calgacus. He was the last hero of native resistance against the Roman invasion of Britannia three hundred years ago.’
‘I know all about that,’ said Romulus. ‘I’ve read the pages of Tacitus that relate his speech before the last battle, and the harsh words he uses to define the Pax romana.’
‘ “With false words they call Empire the subjugation of the world, and where they have made a desert, they call it peace,” ’ recited Aurelius. ‘But remember,’ he continued, not without a certain pride, ‘these are not actually the words of Calgacus, but of Tacitus himself: a Roman criticizing Roman imperialism. This is where the greatness of our civilization lies.’
‘They say that his council met gathered around that stone,’ said Ambrosinus, ‘and since then it has symbolized the liberty of all the inhabitants of this land, whatever their race.’
They continued their ascent towards the outer wall of the camp, but even at that distance it was evident that the place was deserted: the palisade was in ruins, the gates hanging from their hinges, the towers crumbling. Aurelius was the first to enter and witness, wherever his gaze fell, the signs of negligence and abandon.
‘A legion of ghosts,’ he murmured.
‘This place has been abandoned for years, it’s all falling to pieces,’ echoed Vatrenus. Batiatus tested the stability of a stairway that led up to the sentry walk, and the entire structure crashed noisily to the ground.
Ambrosinus seemed bewildered, overwhelmed by that desolation.
‘You really thought you’d still find something here?’ demanded Aurelius. ‘I can’t believe it. Look at the Great Wall down there: there hasn’t been a Roman standard flying over that wall for more than seventy years. How could you have hoped that a small bastion like this would survive? Look for yourself. There are no signs of destruction or of armed resistance. They just got up and left. Who knows how long ago.’
Ambrosinus walked towards the centre of the camp. ‘It may seem impossible to you, but you must believe me: the fire has not died yet. We need only stoke it up and the flame of liberty will once again blaze brightly!’
No one was listening. They shook their heads, daunted, in that unreal silence broken only by the whistle of the wind, by the creaking doors of the sheds eroded by time and the elements. Heedless of their dejection, Ambrosinus approached what must have been the praetorium, the commander’s residence, and disappeared inside.
‘Where’s he going?’ asked Livia.
Aurelius shrugged.
‘So now what do we do?’ wondered Batiatus. ‘It looks like we’ve travelled two thousand miles for nothing.’
Romulus was crouched in a corner, closed up in his own thoughts, and Livia didn’t dare go near him. She could guess how he felt and was suffering for him.
‘Seeing the state of things here, we’d better look at this situation realistically,’ began Vatrenus.
‘Realistically? There’s nothing real here! Just look around you, by all the gods!’ burst out Demetrius, but the words were not out of his mouth when the door of the praetorium opened and out came Ambrosinus. Their muttering ceased and they all stared at the solemn figure emerging from the darkness with an amazing object in his hand: a silver-headed, open-jawed dragon with a purple tail, hoisted on a pole from which a banner hung. The words on the banner read: LEGIO XII DRACO.
‘My God!’ murmured Livia. Romulus gazed at the standard, its tail embroidered with golden scales that seemed to move as if alive, as if suddenly animated by a vital force. Ambrosinus drew closer to Aurelius, eyes blazing. His face was transformed; his tense features seemed carved into stone. He delivered the standard to Aurelius, saying: ‘It’s yours, commander. The legion has been reinstated.’
Aurelius hesitated, immobile before that slender, nearly emaciated figure, before that imperious gaze that flared with a mysterious, indomitable light. The wind picked up suddenly, raising a cloud of dust that enveloped them all. Aurelius held out his hand and grasped the pole.
‘Go now,’ commanded Ambrosinus. ‘Hang it from the highest tower.’
Aurelius looked around at his silent, unmoving companions, and then slowly made his way up to the battlements and hung the standard from the western tower, the highest of all. The dragon’s tail twisted free, lashed by the wind. The metallic mouth let forth an acute sound, the whistle that had so often terrified the enemy in battle. He looked below: his companions were lined up, offering a military salute. His eyes welled with tears.
Ambrosinus spoke again: ‘We’ll install ourselves here, and we’ll try to make this place liveable. It will be our home for some time. I will try to re-establish contact with the people I knew and who perhaps still live here. When the time comes, I will report to the senate of Carvetia, if it still exists, or summon the people to the forum. I will present Romulus to the people and to the senate.’
‘You promised them an army when you left this land so many years ago,’ said Vatrenus, ‘and you’re returning with a child. What do you expect from them?’
‘Heed my words: the legion has been reinstated and the soldiers who have scattered will flock around this standard and around their emperor. I will remind them of the prophecy: “A youth shall come from the southern sea with a sword . . . The eagle and the dragon will fly again over the great land of Britannia!”’
‘The sword . . .’ murmured Aurelius, head low. ‘I’ve lost it.’
‘Not for ever,’ replied Ambrosinus. ‘You shall win it back, I promise you.’
*
The next day, Ambrosinus left the camp to regain contact with the land he had so long abandoned. He set off all alone, with his pilgrim’s staff, across the valley to Carvetia. With each step, his soul flooded with deep emotion. The scent of the grass carried on the wind, the song of the birds which welcomed the rising sun, the meadows dotted with white and yellow flowers, all brought him back to the distant days of his youth, and everything seemed close and familiar to him, as though he had never left. As he advanced, the sun rose in the sky, warming the air and setting the streams asparkle like silver ribbons. He watched the shepherds bring their herds and flocks to pasture, the peasants pruning the apple trees in their orchards: the beauty of nature seemed to prevail over the misfortune impending on human destiny, and this struck him as the most auspicious of signs.
He came within view of the city late in the afternoon, and recognized a familiar shape on a hillside. It was a large, ancient residence, walled all around like a fort but surrounded by green pastures and fields where farmers and workers were occupied in their tasks. Some were preparing the ground for sowing, others were removing dry branches from the trees, and still others were at the edge of the wood, loading great trunks on to oxen-drawn carts. A herd of horses ran within an enclosure, led by a longmaned white stallion who galloped unbridled, whipping the air with his tail.
Ambrosinus entered through the main gate of the vast courtyard lined with the workshops of blacksmiths, farriers and carpenters. As he entered, he was greeted by the delicious fragrance of freshly-baked bread and the festive barking of the dogs. No one asked who he was, or what he wanted. A woman presented him with a loaf of bread, their gift to all guests, and he understood that nothing had changed in that noble home since he had been away. He asked: ‘Is Kustennin still the lord of this house?’
‘He is, thank God,’ replied the woman.
; ‘Please tell him, then, that an old friend has returned from a long exile, and is eager to embrace him again.’
‘Follow me,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll take you to him.’
‘No, I’d rather wait for him here, as befits a wayfarer who knocks at the door requesting hospitality and shelter.’
The woman disappeared through an archway and quickly went up the stairs leading to the upper floor of the villa. Shortly thereafter an imposing figure stood out against the red light of dusk. A man of about fifty with blue eyes, greying at the temples, his wide shoulders draped with a black cloak, considered him with an uncertain expression, trying to recognize the pilgrim he found before him. Ambrosinus moved closer. ‘Kustennin, it’s Myrdin Emreis, your old friend. I’m back.’
The man’s eyes filled with joy. He ran towards him, shouting: ‘Myrdin!’ and he gripped him in a long hug. ‘How long!’ he gasped, his voice quivering with emotion. ‘My old friend, how long has it been? Oh good God, how could I not have recognized you at once?’
Ambrosinus stepped back to take a look at his face, rather incredulous that he had found him again after so many years. ‘I’ve been through every mishap you can imagine. I’ve suffered hunger and cold and I’ve had to undergo terrible trials, my friend. That’s why I look so different; my hair has gone completely white and even my voice has weakened. I’m so happy to see you, so very happy . . . you haven’t changed at all, except for that bit of frost at your temples! Your family is well?’
‘Come,’ said Kustennin. ‘Come and meet them! Egeria and I have a daughter, Ygraine, who is the light of our eyes.’ He led the way up the stairs and down a corridor to the women’s quarters.
‘Egeria,’ said Ambrosinus. ‘It’s Myrdin, do you remember me?’
Egeria dropped the embroidery that she was working on near the window and came towards him. ‘Myrdin? I can’t believe it. We thought you died long ago! This is a true gift from God, we must celebrate! You’ll stay here with us, I don’t want you leaving ever again,’ she exclaimed, turning to her husband. ‘Isn’t that right, Kustennin?’
‘Certainly,’ he replied. ‘Nothing would make us happier.’
Ambrosinus was about to reply when a lovely little girl walked in. Her father’s blue eyes, her mother’s flaming red hair, enchanting in her long gown of light blue wool: this was Ygraine, who greeted him gracefully.
Egeria immediately ordered the servants to prepare dinner and a room for their guest. ‘Just for tonight,’ she assured him. ‘Tomorrow we’ll find you more comfortable, sunnier quarters . . .’
Ambrosinus interrupted her: ‘I’m glad to accept your hospitality, but I cannot stay here with you, although I desire it with all my heart. I’m not alone. I’ve arrived with a group of friends, all the way from Italy. Thus far we’ve managed to escape the relentless pursuit of our enemies.’
‘It doesn’t matter who’s after you,’ replied Kustennin. ‘You’ll be safe here and no one will dare hurt you. My servants are all armed, and if necessary they can turn into a small but well-disciplined and combative fighting unit.’
‘I thank you,’ replied Ambrosinus. ‘Mine is a long story, which I will tell you this evening, if you have the patience to listen, but why have you armed your servants? And what has happened to the Legion of the Dragon? My friends and I have taken shelter at the old fort, but it was immediately clear to us that it had been long abandoned. Have the troops been moved to different quarters?’
‘My God, Myrdin,’ replied Kustennin, ‘the legion has not existed for years, it was dissolved long ago . . .’
Ambrosinus darkened: ‘Dissolved? I can’t believe that. They had sworn on the bloodied body of Saint Germanus that they would fight for the liberty of our homeland as long as they had a breath of life in them. I’ve never forgotten that pledge, Kustennin, and I’ve returned to make good my promise. But then . . . not even you have the power any longer to defend this land from those who oppress her!’
Kustennin sighed. ‘For years I tried to maintain my rank as consul, and for as long as the legion existed, this was to some measure possible. I had no lack of opposition, of course, from those who tried to brand me with the defamatory title of usurper and throw me in with the tyrants of this unfortunate land, but then the legion was dissolved and Wortigern succeeded in corrupting most of the senate. He still dominates the country today with his fierce mercenaries. Carvetia is actually quite a fortunate city, because Wortigern needs our horse breeders and our port, so he cannot suffocate us. The senate still meets and the magistrates still exercise their authority, at least in part, but this is all that is left of the liberty that Germanus had succeeded in restoring to us, along with the pride and dignity of he who is master of his own destiny.’
‘I understand,’ whispered Ambrosinus, lowering his gaze to hide the disheartenment that had gripped him as he heard those words.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ insisted Kustennin. ‘What have you done in all these years you’ve been away? Who are these friends you mentioned, and why did you take them to the old fortified camp?’
Egeria interrupted their conversation to tell them that dinner was served, and the men sat down to table. Huge oak trunks blazed in the big hearth, the servants poured frothy beer into their cups and placed platters of roasted meat before them and they all ate heartily, recalling the old days. When the table was cleared, Kustennin added more wood to the fire, poured sweet wine from Gaul and invited his guest to sit with him near the hearth.
The waves of memories and the warmth of friendship and of wine encouraged Ambrosinus to open up his heart and inspired his tongue, and so he told his whole story, beginning from when he had left Britannia to go and seek assistance from the emperor. It was very late when he finished. Kustennin looked him in the eye with a stupefied expression and murmured: ‘Almighty God . . . you’ve brought us the emperor himself . . .’
‘So I have,’ nodded Ambrosinus, ‘and right now he is asleep in that solitary place, wrapped in the field blanket which is the only thing he owns, watched over by the most noble and generous men that the earth has ever borne.’
34
WULFILA AND HIS MEN landed in Britannia the day after Aurelius, at nightfall. They had their horses and weapons with them, and they proceeded to disembark at once. The helmsman was persuaded to remain with them even though he was a subject of Siagrius, because he was originally from Britannia and would be precious in assisting them through that unknown land. Wulfila gave him money to encourage his desertion, and promised him more.
‘What is it you want to know?’ asked the helmsman.
‘How to reach those men.’
‘It won’t be easy. I saw the man leading them: he’s a Druid, or has been brought up by the Druids. That means that he’ll be able to move through this territory like a fish in the sea. It means that he knows every secret, every hiding place in this land. Consider that he has a good day and a half’s advantage over us; it will be very difficult to find their trail. If we knew where they were headed, it would be different, but otherwise . . . Britannia is very big. It is the biggest island in the world.’
‘But there can’t be that many roads; the main itineraries must be limited.’
‘Of course, but who says they’ll follow them? They may choose to go through the forests, following shepherds’ trails or the tracks of wild beasts.’
‘They won’t stay hidden from me for long. I’ve always sniffed them out, and I will this time as well.’
He walked away down the beach and stopped to watch the undertow, brooding. He abruptly gestured for the helmsman to draw closer: ‘Who’s in command here in Britannia?’
‘What?’
‘Is there a king? Someone who holds the highest power?’
‘No, the country is fiercely contested by a number of tribal chiefs, violent and quarrelsome. However, there is one man that everyone fears. He dominates most of the territory from the Great Wall all the way to Caerleon, and he’s backed by ferocious mercenari
es. His name is Wortigern.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘In the north. He lives in an inaccessible fortress that he had built over an old fortified Roman camp called Castra Vetera. He was once a valiant warrior himself, and he fought off the invaders from the High Lands who had stormed the Great Wall, protecting the cities and their institutions, but power corrupted him, and turned him into a bloody tyrant. He justifies his dominion by claiming to defend the northern border of Britannia. In truth, this is only a pretext; he pays tribute to the High Land chiefs, and makes up for it by bleeding the country white with relentless taxes, or even by allowing the Saxon mercenaries he has brought in from the continent to pillage freely.’
‘You know a lot.’
‘This was my home for a long time. I took shelter in Gaul out of desperation and I enrolled in Siagrius’s army.’
‘If you take me to Wortigern, you won’t regret it. I’ve give you land, servants, livestock, everything you could desire.’
‘I can take you as far as Castra Vetera. Then you’ll have to find a way to gain an audience. They say that Wortigern is extremely suspicious and untrusting, because he knows just how much hate he has sown and how many people would like to see him dead. He’s old and weak now, and realizes how vulnerable he is.’
‘Let’s get going then. We have no time to waste.’
They left the ship to the undertow and marched along the coast until they met up with the old Roman consular road, the fastest way to reach their destination.
‘What does he look like?’ Wulfila asked the guide.
‘No one knows. No one has seen his face for years and years. Some say that he’s been devastated by a repugnant disease, and that his face is one purulent sore. Others claim that it’s simply that he doesn’t want his subjects to see the evidence of his decline: his dull, glassy eyes, his drooling, toothless mouth and his sagging cheeks. He wants them to fear him, and so he hides behind a golden mask that portrays him in the unchanging splendour of his youth. It was fashioned by a great artist from the melted gold of a chalice. Such blasphemy, they say, sealed Wortigern’s alliance with Satan, and anyone who wears that mask, until the end of the centuries, will have the power of the devil.’ He stole a glance at Wulfila, fearful that he had incurred his wrath by alluding to his own deformity, but Wulfila strangely showed no sign of resentment.
The Last Legion Page 38